


Roast Spuds

by unbelievable2



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:59:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2908553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbelievable2/pseuds/unbelievable2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're just hanging around.....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roast Spuds

**Author's Note:**

> A ficlet written for the lovely "Discovered on a Silent Night" (DIALJ comm) challenge on Live Journal. There's a sort of prompt in there as well - "tender".

“Roast spuds,” said Doyle, after a pause. “Yeah, they’re my favourite part.”  
“Not the stuffing? I like the stuffing. Good old sage and onion, especially when it’s gone a bit hard and crispy round the edges.”  
“The stuffing’s good, don’t get me wrong, but there’s nothing like roast spuds on Christmas Day.”  
“Not sprouts, though.”  
“Oh God, not sprouts! My gran use to cook them until they were a pulp - all grey-green and slopping onto the plate.”  
“I don’t recall green vegetables in our house, much,” mused Bodie, wrinkling his brow in thought. “Tinned carrots, though. They were all right.”  
“Cold turkey sandwiches on Boxing Day, meat all lovely and tender with a nice bit of butter in between ‘em. And some Smith’s Crisps - only ready-salted in those days.”  
“Not the cornucopia we have now, eh? And chocolates, always chocolates. The only time you’d see a box, the whole year.”  
“Black Magic.”  
“Yeah, Black Magic! The hazelnut one!”  
“The caramel one – the square.”  
“Nah, you got three hazelnuts in the hazelnut one – better value! And there was the crunchy bit…”  
“Shush! Can you hear something?”  
“Only the wind again, mate. It howls a bit in amongst these rocks, dunnit?”  
“Still snowing? Can you see?”  
Bodie craned his neck.  
“Nah, sort of rainy sleet, I think. It won’t cover up my trail of breadcrumbs.”  
Doyle snorted.  
“You’re putting a lot of faith in Anson’s abilities to concentrate when he’s just about to go off on leave.”  
“Nah, he’s all right,” replied Bodie, equably. “It’s always the same, innit? There but for the grace of God. It could be him down a crevice tomorrow, and us having to pull him out.  
“Crevasse.”  
“Eh?”  
“Crevasse. That’s what it is on a mountain. A crevice is a … I dunno … a little gap.”  
“Have you looked around you, Ray? Crevice is the word, mountain or no. How’s the leg?”  
Doyle gave the approximation of a shrug deep within his padded jacket.  
“Okay. Can’t really feel it.”  
“No? Hmmm…”  
“Ow!”  
“That’s better. Don’t want you getting gangrene.”  
“Bodie, it’s a broken leg,” came the irritable reply, “not frostbite!”  
“In these temperatures? Don’t tempt fate! Anyway, afters.”  
“Afters?”  
“”Yeah, what did you use to have for afters? Mince pies, Christmas pud…?”  
“Pud, always. Gran made it herself in the old days, but eventually we just used to buy one from the Co-op. It was better anyway. Didn’t taste of sprouts.”  
“Never liked it. Not pud.”  
“No? Really? I would have thought it was right up your street.”  
“Too dark, too heavy, all that sticky fruit. Mind you, I was the only one in the family who didn’t like it, and my nan used to make Bird’s Trifle just for me. Which meant I got to eat most of it. Lovely!”  
“You liked that?”  
All that Dream Topping? God, yeah.”  
“Well it was all right, I suppose. But I never liked the hundreds-and-thousands on the top.”  
“What? That’s the best part, mate!”  
“But they used to leak the dye all through the topping.”  
“Aren’t you the fussy one? I don’t think they ever lasted long enough to leak, in our house! You’re selling it short, Doyle. Bird’s Trifle is a classic.”  
“I remain to be convinced. Look, don’t you think you ought to get out of here, Bodie? Try and find someone? It must be almost dark.”  
“Went dark about an hour ago, mate. It’s fine. Anson’ll be here.”  
“But…”  
“Ray, if I let you go, you’ll fall even further. Thought we established that a few hours ago. Look, I’m hanging around here with you until reinforcements arrive, all right?”  
“’Hanging around’ – har har, very droll. Well, I think it’s unnecessary. I’m not that precious... precocious... precarious, and I mean, it’s not even that cold, now.”  
“No?”  
“Oi, what’re you doin’?”  
“Trying to feel your core temperature, mate.”  
“Leave my core alone!”  
“Ray, you’ve got to guard against hypothermia. You shouldn’t be feeling warm right now. It’s perishing.”  
“You’re quite a warm person to cuddle up to, you know. It’s all that blubber.”  
“Bloody cheek. That’s muscle, that is. And when Anson gets here, you’re on your own. I’m not having him thinking we’ve been snuggling like bugs in a rug all day. We’ll never live it down.”  
“He’ll never even get here, never mind that…”  
“Shush!” Bodie paused for a moment, then unleashed a fearsome yell.  
“Oi! Down here!”  
“Bloody hell, Bodie! Not so close to me ear-hole!” Bodie took no notice.  
“Oi! Down here! Anson? Down here!” He dropped his voice to a warm whisper, cheery and bright.  
“Look, Ray, there’s a torch – see it? We’re all right now, sunshine.” Then a foghorn again: “Get a bloody stretcher, Anson! Doyle broke his leg!”  
“Now what? He’s gone away!”  
“Well, got to get the right kit, hasn’t he? Not long now, Ray. We’ll be out in time for you to get plastered up and then home on sick leave for Christmas. I’ll do dinner.”  
The torch appeared again at the top of the rocks.  
“Oi! Take your time, why don’t you? Okay, Anson, chuck it down!”  
“With Bird’s bloody Trifle, I suppose.”  
“You’ll be glad of it. Nothing like being trifled with at Christmas! Look, just for you, I won’t use hundreds-and-thousands. How about almonds – flaked almonds?”  
“I could accept that as a compromise, yeah.”  
“Oh, good. God, you’re a fussy eater. Now get hold of that rope before Anson changes his mind and leaves us here. We’ll just put it round your chest, all right? Under the arms. Okay, Anson, haul away.”  
Slowly levitating up the rock-face, Doyle gazed down at the receding Bodie.  
“I could do something with an avocado to start with, I suppose,” he mused.  
“Nothing that would get you arrested, I hope,” came the distant reply, then: “And roast spuds, Ray! Lots of ‘em, I promise!”  
Doyle emerged at the top of the cliff, to be carefully supported onto the waiting stretcher.  
“Get Bodie, Anson,” he snarled, when Anson appeared to be spending too long tending him.  
“All right, all right, keep your hair on.”  
Anson turned away, and the two local bobbies who had brought the stretcher up loomed into Doyle’s eyeline, peering at him with undisguised curiosity. Doyle frowned at them.  
“And there better be gravy,” he said, just before passing out.  
“Poor bloke,” said one bobby to the other. “He’s gone mad with the pain.”  
They lifted him for the trip down to the waiting ambulance, just as Bodie emerged from the crevasse.  
“Gravy?” he snapped at Anson, who looked at him askance. “What does he think it’s going to be, the bloody Savoy?” Then he went down the hillside at a shambling run, cold muscles barely working, to catch the stretcher up.  
 _-fin-_


End file.
